


The Witch and the Werewolf

by andthekitchensink



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Halloween Challenge, Historical References, Human AU (kinda), M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Other, Trans Connor (Detroit: Become Human), descriptions of dead animals but not too graphic I hope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 20:47:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21326449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andthekitchensink/pseuds/andthekitchensink
Summary: One dark October night, a demon hunter and Magister arrives to a village ravaged by mysterious deaths, presumably perpetrated by what locals call 'a Beast'. With rumours of a werewolf running wild, and the full moon on the rise, he must act fast and find the source of the killings. Only problem is, the Huntsman volunteered by the Mayor to help him accomplish his mission is...not entirely co-operating.This is my attempt at a 1k fic for the Halloween HankCon & Other Ships Fic Exchange. Yeah. It's not 1k, but I hope it's worth the read! For Rox, aka @pussydetroit!I had entirely too much fun working with your prompt, and I hope you like it.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 12
Kudos: 48
Collections: Hankcon & Other Ships Halloween Exchange





	The Witch and the Werewolf

**Author's Note:**

> (Oh, and a side note: this is a fic completely lacking internalized transphobia or homophobia, and also no gender dysphoria. Connor is a witch, who simply decided boobs were not for him, so he magicked them away, kept the rest of his anatomy mostly unchanged, and grew up a boy of his own design. While it isn't explicitly stated in this fic, Connor is transmasc, and if anyone has any issues with that, there are plenty other works of fiction out there to read.)

###  The Witch and the Werewolf

PROLOGUE.

It was a dark and stormy night - for that’s how these stories always begin, isn’t it? Tales of ghouls and creatures with long, sharp teeth that stalk through the night - yes, but this is not just any old ghost story, but a tale of empathy, and how one should never judge a hound by its hairs (nor indeed a bookworm by its carapace).

On a cold October night, which was indeed dark and stormy just like in the stories, a Magister arrived in a small village situated in the northernmost reaches of the land, resting snug as a bug in a rug beneath a mountain range and a vast forest, down through which ran a never ending stream of water down into a big lake.

The Magister’s name was Connor, and his business was of the utmost urgency. This village, hidden so far away as to be almost completely isolated, was haunted by a foul beast: a werewolf, killing livestock and men alike. It had been a long journey, and though he was pleased to dismount, he knew there was still a long road ahead of him. These things were always complicated, and even more so in later years.

The past thirty years or so, the land had been ravaged by unpredictable weather and failed crops, not to mention disease. As if the world wasn’t already haunted to excess by the otherworldly nature of ghouls and witchcraft and shapeshifting monstrosities, a farmer could no longer count on the wisdom passed down onto their families by their ancestors. Winter came much too soon, or summertime came and went in a week, leaving the world in a state of unrelenting autumn. Spring hid her face, as if shamed by her own barren existence. No, life had been anything but easy, for as long as one could remember, with conditions changing from one generation to the next. It never seemed to end - and add to that, the Plague.

The village itself, sleepy and quiet this late at night, was lit up by wrought iron lanterns fixed to every wall of every house, the cobblestone streets glistening from the rain that didn’t seem to ever end. Up ahead, a pair of figures came hurrying towards him. It was the mayor of the village, who had written to him just a few weeks ago, and another man beside him. Connor knew by the sigil stitched into his coat that he was the peacekeeper, second in rank only to the mayor.

“Captain Fowler,” the Magister said, getting right to the point. “I hope I’m not an inconvenience to you. At this late hour…?”

“Not at all, Magister. You’re welcome any time of day. This is Perkins, Commander of the Nightwatch. Come, let’s get you out of the rain.”

His horse was seen to by the captain’s stableman, while Connor followed his current employers into the house. Compared to other mayoral abodes in which he had set foot, this was a modest one, but compared to the rest of the village it was a palace: a two story mansion built on a small but private plot of land in and amongst a winding labyrinth of more or less joined stone houses.

“Sit.” Captain Fowler invited him close to the fireplace to lay out his wet coat and boots to let them dry, while he poured him a mug of hot coffee fresh from the cast iron kettle hanging over the fire. Away from the hot coals, there was a pot, simply sitting on the stone floor close enough by the fire to keep warm. Fowler let him have his coffee first, but Connor appreciated the comforting notion of a hot meal to follow.

“Thank you.” He warmed his hands around the mug, watching the Commander’s face with a keen eye. He stood leaning against the mantle, arms crossed over his chest: he was stoic to a fault, seeming as if none of this concerned him. The entire village would be looking to him for action in times like these. If he couldn’t find the root of the problem and rip it out, he would have to face the ire of the townspeople - was it all for show? Some token of malplaced pride? At least the Captain wasn’t so stoic that he wouldn’t ask for help. Connor sipped his coffee, just a tiny sip to keep from burning himself. It stung, of course, but the creature comforts of a hot brew was more than worth it.

“You didn’t tell me much in your letter, Captain. Are you absolutely sure we’re dealing with a werewolf? Not some other kind of shapeshifter? A changeling, or something demonic?”

Perkins shook his head, mouth curled into a haughty smirk; Fowler let his own mug of coffee hang between his knees, elbows resting atop them. His eyes were imploring, searching his face for answers they had yet to find - but when Perkins spoke up his voice was like steel: unrelenting, unforgiving. He was the resident authority on these matters. 

“It’s a Beast.”

ACT I.

The next day, Connor was introduced to the villagers by way of a town hall gathering, where he asked them of their recent troubles. A gruesome tale unfolded over the course of the meet, of mauled animals found at the edge of the forest, of cows and sheep disappearing, and worse: last month, the Nightwatch had launched a search for three missing sisters, and only half of them came back alive. Picked off, one by one, by an unseen force. Gutted. Mauled beyond recognition. Their bodies were burned, to ward off evil forces taking hold of them in death.

It was just past midday when Perkins took him to see the Huntsman, on Captain Fowler’s suggestion (being an old friend of the man), who lived in a cottage further up in the woods. It was a short ride, but steep, the village settled low into the valley and the mountain rising all around. The morning air was crisp and chilly after the last bout of rain. As they approached, a big dog began to bark in the distance, alerting its master to possible danger. Soon after, a man came out of the house, and the sight of him gave Connor a peculiar tingling sensation all over his body. Hank, his name was, as Fowler had told him, ‘Hank Anderson. Opinionated, angry, doesn’t stand horseshit’. It was vividly put, but said nothing of the man himself, as Connor saw him.

Hank’s eyes were pale, but keenly observant, and though he was easily Fowler’s age (and close to his impressive height), the years had not been unkind to him; broad about the shoulders, and the chest, of a stocky build that brought to mind a bear. He had a bit of a soft belly to him, but it was apparent enough he was all muscle beneath it; shoulder length hair and a beard that seemed trimmed more out of habit than it was neat, both gray as granite and dashed with silver. He must have been beautiful as a young man. He was beautiful now.

As they approached, the man sneered, opening the door to let his dog in (and the dog was nearly as big as him, for a dog, a Saint Bernard), then went inside himself and slammed the door shut.

“He’s the best Huntsman we have,” Perkins said, excusing his less than hospitable nature, albeit with a less than hospitable jab at the man they came to see. “Not that it says much when he’s the  _ only _ Huntsman we have. His family’s lived in the village since it was built. If you ask Fowler, no one knows the lands as well as he.”

“That’s all I care for, Commander,” said Connor, fully prepared to make his own opinion of the man, whatever Perkins was trying to insinuate about his capability. They tied their horses to the porch, and went inside.

“Took ya long enough to get here,” the big man said, gruff, from over by the fireplace.

“This is Magister Connor,” said Perkins, with an assessing look in his eye. Connor had a feeling right then and there, that Perkins was a whole lot of murky depths, wrapped up in one nigh inscrutable man. He went on without delay. “Come to help us solve this mystery.”

“I  _ know _ who he  _ is _ ,” said the big man, who seemed broader and taller when confined to the small cottage. His tone of voice spoke as loudly as his words: he didn’t give much for the introduction, no matter who did the honors, nor its subject. “I don’t care  _ who _ he is.”

Connor observed, quiet for a little while, comparing him to what he had been told: easily agitated, but a good man where it counted. He supposed he was going to find out soon enough. “Captain Fowler says you’ve been dealing with these incidents for the past two months?”

“Told you ‘bout the dead sheep, did he?”

Connor inclined his chin in a nod. “Sheep, cows, yes. And the sisters. The members of the Watch, killed after a hostile encounter with the Beast, as Perkins describes it.”

Hank slammed his fist into the wall, seemingly unprovoked. “There  _ is _ no Beast! Just starving wolves, gone mad with hunger. We’ll be no better than them once we have nothing to eat. We lost half the village to the Plague. Nothing grows here anymore, nothing thrives. It’s just a matter of time...”

Perkins arched his eyebrows as if it was the only thing keeping him from rolling his eyes, but Connor couldn’t help but acknowledge the shivers running up and down his spine. There was no telling what foul forces were in play when Plague and famine threatened the land and every living thing thereupon. Humans weren’t the only creature on earth that knew desperation.

“That’s exactly what I’m here for, Master Huntsman,” said Connor. “If there is a Beast, I’ll hunt it down. If there’s none, I’ll find the real root of the problem. Mark my words. I always accomplish my mission.”

Hank looked at him as if he’d grown a second head right beside his first one, as if he couldn’t quite believe his ears.

“That’s all well and good,” said the Huntsman. “But will you always  _ survive _ it?”

***

It was safe to say that they did not see eye to eye, but they were tasked with finding the cause of this mess, and be it pride or something else that compelled him, Master Anderson showed the Magister wherever he wished to go - albeit taking every opportunity to tell him his presence was unwanted and unnecessary, that it was no werewolf behind this, that the village had heard the news of the werewolf trial of Bedburg, and now they saw werewolves lurking in every shadow. Connor listened, and could only agree that people were easily spooked after the details of the trial became known. He wondered, however, why the Huntsman seemed so adamant that the killings bore no mark of a werewolf, just the wolves of the area, when surely he had no knowledge of the occult or supernatural. He kept his ponderings to himself, but mentally prepared for the coming storm. Whatever its shape or ferocity, he would be in the eye of it, and he had best be prepared.

In a matter of days they had covered most of the woods, hindered only by the steepness of the trails leading up into the mountain. Master Anderson was indeed a master of these woods. He knew the land better than anyone imaginable: hidden paths opened up to him like they’d never been hidden, he knew every edible plant, every poisonous one, and the wildlife… He could spot a hart from a mile away, it seemed. It was a marvel to behold - and a source for...an inkling of suspicion. How anyone could be so in command of their senses as to do what Master Anderson did every waking hour...

Along the way they had found carcasses new and old, but Connor were always more interested in the fresher ones, saying there was no use turning the forest floor for bones when there were plenty of them clearly visible - if one knew where to look. The truth of it was of a different nature: the fresher the kill, the better he could see the marks thereof, like little golden signatures. It was them that he marked down in his notebook every time they set up camp for the night. His drawings were grisly, vivid imagery as lifelike as the real thing, rendered down to the littlest detail. The animals were eviscerated, their insides removed, and completely drained of blood - this done by razorlike claws, or some similar curved instrument. All around them were footprints resembling, but not exactly matching, that of a canine. There were invariably more than one set, making it difficult to discern the number of animals or creatures having done the deed. Wolves were known to hunt in groups, for instance, but they left different marks on the bodies (what little was left of them). Rarely did they leave flesh and bone behind for others to feast on. No. Wolves were not behind this… But there were other things, little details that told him they were dealing with the supernatural - or someone making the killings  _ look _ the part. Nevertheless: evidence pointed towards something carnivorous, and canine, capable of painstaking precision. Not a drop of blood spilled near the bodies or in their vicinity, and the internal organs were removed with such skill as the finest surgeon. He was yet to be convinced there was a werewolf about, but one couldn’t discount the possibility just yet.

Werewolves as such were a particular breed of creature, created either by curse or parentage: the bite of myth and lore was very rarely the cause of lycanthropy. Being bitten caused a fever which could be lethal if left untreated, but there were no facts supporting the ritualistic beheading and burning of the dead to stop them from rising again in the shape of a wolf. Connor much preferred facts to support his course of action, but more often than not he’d found himself the lone voice of reason drowning in an ocean of uproar. Just look at Ravensburg. Just look at Bedburg, just a few short months ago...

He shook himself from his thoughts, making a note to prepare all manner of salves and potions, just in case. It was their third night investigating, and he didn’t feel any wiser now than when he first arrived. But, perhaps contrary to intuition, he felt that knowing what they were  _ not  _ dealing with was often more valuable than knowing what they  _ were _ \- and he now had an entire catalogue of beasts to strike off the list of suspects.

***

“At least you seem to know what you’re doing,” said Hank suddenly, lit up by the warm glow of the open fire. They were less than two days away from the full moon, and time was running out, if indeed there were a man-wolf about. On more than one occasion he had pointed this out, but so far, the Magister seemed content to gather information - and indeed he was.

Connor lifted his gaze from his notebook, the scratchings of his feather quill coming to a sudden stop. Hank was not one to strike up conversation, other than to remark on the futility of their venture. In that sense, this was something completely new, which escaped neither of them.

“I would have hoped that was apparent from the day we met, Master Anderson.”

The curl of his lip foretold another scathing remark, but what actually came was something completely different. He surprised even himself. “Just-- call me Hank. All this ‘Huntsman’ this, ‘Master’ that…”

Hank set his eyes staring into the fire, wary of looking the Magister’s way, not wanting to seem too eager for any token of friendship. He couldn’t afford to get friendly with anyone. Not during an investigation that could cost them both their lives, and more. And yet… There was something disarming about that willowy wisp of a man (deceptive: much stronger than he looked, never shying away from physically taxing work. He was not simply a scholar who’d never set foot out of his office); constantly inquisitive but never intruding into his personal life. When he didn’t drill him about the killings or disappearances, they spoke of the terrain and the weather, trading wisdoms regarding the properties of local flora and fauna. It seemed the Magister’s knowledge was endless, and the more they talked, the more enthusiastic he got, chatting about whatever had caught his attention. It was-- sweet. Disarmingly so.

“Just ‘Hank’,” said the Magister with a hint of a smile. “Very well, then. Call me Connor, if you will.”

His eyes were incredibly vibrant in the warm light of the fire, so much so that they seemed almost green when he finally lifted his eyebrows and their eyes met. They shared grins,  _ proper grins _ , for the first time since meeting, and it made a world of difference. Perhaps it was only the first small step of many towards any real trust, but it certainly felt like a leap.

In the next couple of days, that step forward would be tested; but for now, it was enough for both of them.

***

On the morrow, Hank’s spirits seemed lifted, for the ease he gathered kindling for the fire, speaking of the weather about to shift for the worse and how they ought to find proper shelter before the storm. Connor agreed, spying their surrounds for marks of a different kind, while gathering what old dead branches and dried bits of wood he found. Now that the ice between them had well and truly broke, Hank seemed a more talkative man, even if he stuck to polite conversation and nothing too personal. Like how to brew a perfect pot of coffee. Like the weather - it was a recurring theme, the weather, but he seemed somehow more animated now, waving his arms about, talking about snow.

It made Connor suspect that perhaps he was simply a lonely man, unaccustomed to keeping company, someone who prided himself on ‘happily’ living alone on the outskirts of the village he grew up in. Connor wondered why he stayed so far away from the others, and while it was not his place to ask, it  _ was _ his place to investigate. He had some suspicions from which he’d rather not draw conclusions, but he couldn’t exactly ask the Huntsman outright what kind of magic he wielded.

Breaking fast with bread, cheese and freshly brewed coffee, he turned his focus onto the man across the fire. He could not get distracted, even by the lure of friendship. He had to consider all possibilities. Until struck off his list, everyone had to remain a suspect - whether he was absolutely breathtaking from certain angles, or not.

“I think today we go downhill, to talk to the villagers again,” he said, tearing off a chunk of bread and passing it back to Hank. “We’ve enough to go on, to present to the Watch.”

It was a test: he wanted to see his reaction, to see what he thought of going into the village proper. As he suspected, a muscle twitched at Hank’s jaw. An invisible wall seemed to draw up all around him.

“You know where to find me, once you’re done.”

“You won’t come with me?”

Hank shook his head, his spirits visibly returning to their more somber levels in a matter of seconds.

“Why?”

“Don’t ask me that. I don’t want to talk about it.”

But Connor did not relent, inquisitive by nature and spurred on by his mission. “Why do you stay away from the village? Why do you lead a life in solitude?”

“I have my dog. That’s enough.”

“But  _ why _ \--”

Hank’s eyes suddenly flashed like lightning, narrowed and lethal. His voice was like a growl, low and gravely, coming all the way down from his belly. He didn’t even sound human anymore. “ _ Don’t _ . Ask me. That. You let me keep my secrets, and I’ll let you keep yours.”

Connor’s tentative theories were all beginning to feel a bit too real for comfort. This was the worst possible time to let himself be affected by that tone and timbre of voice, but with the words coming out of Hank’s mouth, a sudden chill came over him. Not for the shift in Hank’s demeanor, but for the threat. Fear fueled another emotion by name of anger, pushing itself to the forefront of his mind. If Hank thought he could be intimidated, he was dead wrong. He’d fought monsters ten times his size. Twenty!

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Hank rose to his feet, refusing to answer. “Get your things. We’re leaving.”

But it was too late: Connor’s blood was boiling. In a matter of seconds he was off the ground, invading the Huntsman’s space. So close were they that Connor could feel the other man’s breath on his lips and the heat radiating off his body, but it didn’t deter him.

“You think you can threaten me and just walk away? I demand an answer.”

“Or  _ what? _ ” Hank sneered. In this light, his teeth seemed very sharp indeed. “You summon up a werewolf trial, like the one in Bedburg last year? Torture me until I confess to being something I’m not, then condemn me to have my limbs torn from my body, place my severed head on a stake to serve a reminder not to be old and bitter?  _ That’s my only crime. _ ”

They stared into each other’s eyes for what seemed like a very long time, neither one of them backing off. Connor’s heart beat like a drum in his chest, and his jaw hinges tingled from heightened emotion. He could feel his face heating up, all the way to the rounded edges of his ears, and he hoped against hope Hank would misread it as anger, when the truth was a fair bit more complicated. But he did not relent, and in the end, it won him a small victory. Hank sneered at him, scoffed, and looked away. In one long stride he had distanced himself, leaving Connor wound tight, too hot for comfort beneath his high collar.

His hands shook, clenching into fists at his sides. He would ask again, until he had an answer, but now was not the time. He didn’t know what he might  _ do  _ if he had to stand so close to the Huntsman again.

***

Down to the village they went, on horseback, having left Sumo behind by the cottage. He was happiest when he could curl up in his favorite spot and snooze through the day, knowing Hank would take him along into the woods on his return.

It was a quiet ride downhill, and the closer they came the quieter, and the line of Hank’s broad shoulders grew ever more tense. He could feel it in his bones. Something had to give.

“I’m sorry,” he said, very abruptly, prompted by no external factors.

For the space of a breath or two, Connor didn’t speak. Hank supposed he could continue the argument. He could provoke a reaction of some sort, but what could he possibly gain from it? He was known for his foul temper, for his lack of restraint when it came to throwing fists about. He cursed people and he raged against them, and no one could best him in a brawl… But what good would come of it, to start a fight for its own sake, with a man he barely even knew?

“...about?” said Connor, seeming unwilling to make assumptions, but also not outright rejecting the attempt at apology.

Hank shrugged in a stiff, awkward rolling of his shoulders, while he kept his eyes square on the path before them. He stifled a sigh. He had no right to speak of things that were none of his business, no matter what he’d picked up on, or surmised.

“I implied things about your character that I had no right to. All I’ve seen so far is you’re a good man, and it’s petty of me to assume otherwise.”

Connor nodded. “Correct. You had no right, and it  _ was  _ petty of you. I’m still curious what you meant by it. What secret of yours do you think I’ll root out?”

He pursed his lips, his jawline tightening all the way from where his jaw hinged itself to the rest of his face. He’d said too much that morning, thinking the worst of the Magister (he was good at that, too: giving people the benefit of the doubt only to lash out at the first sign of provocation), thinking he knew more than he was letting on. “You’re a bright young man,” he said, quietly frank. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

Later in the day, Hank proved himself right: down in the village he was met with many a happy welcoming, with hugs and kisses to the cheek, with scoldings as to his staying away for so long, and, most obvious of all, commiserations on the death of his wife and son, some years ago.

“Peace be upon your family,” people said, and “God rest your wife and son,” and all manner of variations upon the theme, which only made him sick to his stomach. The death of his family still haunted him, for reasons of his own, as well as the usual ones.

ACT II.

As it turned out, Connor’s gambit earned him nothing but a sickening weight in his belly. Hank’s reluctance to walk amongst the townspeople became clear the moment of his return. The death of his family weighed heavily on his mind, years gone. He didn’t know which was worse: the way some greeted him with genuine tears of condolence years after the fact, or how others looked at him with a glint in their eyes or a sharpness to their smiles, suggesting they thought him somehow guilty of their passing… He could be imagining things. Hank seemed guilt stricken enough, but that didn’t mean anything. Grief took on many forms, guilt being one of the more common ones. It seemed all the more horrific, for not knowing what had transpired.

And yet - through accident or misfortune, for Hank to be guilty of his family’s passing - it didn’t add up. Hank had implied he knew Connor’s secret (whatever he meant by that), and that Connor had best not reveal  _ his _ secret. It gave him the unavoidable impression that their darkest secrets had to be on an even keel with one another. It couldn’t be so...so  _ commonplace _ as tragic circumstances. Connor knew his own secret, its origin, its mettle (if you could use such a word for it)... But as yet, he had no real notion of what Hank was hiding. It wasn’t as though Connor had any hard evidence, just-- a hunch. He didn’t like hunches. They left too much to chance. Tomorrow night he would go out with the Nightwatch, whether Hank joined them or not; before that, discussing strategy with Perkins. 

***

If the Town Hall were a castle, Perkins would be King. They gathered there in the main hall, which for the past few months had been not-so-jokingly referred to as the War Room. If Perkins had had his way, they would have done this as soon as the Magister arrived - but he was not Connor’s sole reason for being here. He had been employed by the entire town, sent for by the Mayor - also present for the meeting.

His sketches were laid out for all to see, along with his notes, and his big books of monsters; his  _ bestiarium _ . The samples taken from the dead animals were treated with a similar amount of enthusiasm from the Watch - which is to say, limited.

Connor argued his case, as it were, going by the evidence gathered, dissuading the Watch of their more fanciful notions of there being a ghoul on the prowl, or a swamp hag. Perkins was convinced there was a werewolf about, and while Connor tried his best to very methodically show why it was too soon to tell, the Commander was the kind of person who disregarded all things that failed to support his own theories.

“Just because the animals have all been eviscerated, we’re not necessarily dealing with a lycanthrope! These are not the marks of a werewolf, unless you’re suggesting we’re dealing with an amateur surgeon who just happens to be a shapeshifter. It’s a bit far-fetched, but not  _ entirely _ beyond the scope of imagination!”

Perkins didn’t listen, but sneered at him, clearly suffering a severe case of superiority complex. “‘Amateur surgeon’... It wouldn’t be the first time we went on a werewolf hunt in these parts. I lost some of my best people last month.”

He looked to his Watch, who nodded agreement amongst themselves. Everyone's eyes were turned to the floor. As strategy meetings went, Connor was not entirely pleased with this one - but, Perkins being the resident expert, his word was law. Tomorrow night, they would hunt down the Beast, just in time for the full moon.

***

The end of the meeting could not have come soon enough from Connor’s not entirely humble point of view - but for now he was glad for the simple pleasure of a warm bed to curl up in, away from the damp cold of the forest. But first they supped at Fowler’s house, and over the course of the evening Connor had the dubious pleasure of seeing a different side to the Huntsman.

It was like watching a transmogrification take place right before his eyes. The two men embraced, slapping each other’s backs, big grins splitting their faces, and immediately it seemed as though they had never been parted by distance or time. Hank smiled more that evening than Connor had seen him smile in the few days he’d known him. It was mesmerizing. They ate and they drank, rich oxtail stew with dumplings, and sourdough bread with a crust to kill for, and ale - too much food and drink for one evening, but Fowler was a generous man who had been waiting for a reason to celebrate. The unexpected return of his friend to the village proper was all the reason he needed. But while Fowler’s spirits rose higher the longer the evening went on, the more Hank imbibed, the more morose he got. His eyes turned from bright and attentive to sad and puppy-like in a matter of hours. The topic of conversation didn’t seem to help.

Fowler tried encouraging him to return to his family home, right there in the middle of the village, but Hank insisted he couldn’t, saying that his place was up there, that he had to keep watch else his late wife would never forgive him. When Fowler asked him (for what sounded like the hundredth time) if he wasn’t lonely, Hank said he lived alone by necessity, not by choice. And besides, Hank said, “I have Sumo.”

Every fiber of Connor’s being ached to find some common middle ground to stand on, but he found himself listening more than he talked: listening to Hank’s gravely voice felt like sinking into a copper tub filled with water  _ just _ hot enough to sting - both pleasant and painful at the same time. Little by little they turned back to more pleasant memories, which notion made him ache even more by contrast. 

He excused himself, saying he was to retire with his books, and bid the old friends a good night, then made his way to the inn, such as it was. It was a far cry from its heyday, when travelers and merchants would pass through on their way to the bigger cities down south. Now, since the Plague had ravaged the civilized world as they knew it, hardly anyone ever knocked on its door, save for witch hunters still roaming the land in search of a scapegoat. You had to blame  _ someone _ for the misfortunes that ravaged the lands, and why not witches...

Once settled in his upstairs room with the door safely locked from the inside, his intentions fell away. Neither books nor bed beckoned him, but rather he sat wide awake, staring at the moon through the window, and dreamed feverish daydreams of Hank’s naked body.

What if he had pushed the issue over breakfast that morning? He could have easily asserted himself further. What if they had exchanged heated words, shouting loud enough to echo through the forest, until it turned physical? He could hold his own in a fight, and wouldn’t normally provoke someone to a wrestling match just because he was touch starved…

But in his daydreaming, it was all too tempting to imagine a fight for dominance that went from sheer aggression to unfettered lust. To grind against one of Hank’s big, muscled thighs, their bodies locked together like a puzzle box. To stroke his belly (hairy? Dark and silvery, like the rest of his hair, and what of his arms? His chest?), bury his hands in those long, moonlit waves of hair, devour him through kisses, ride him right there on the forest floor… White hot flushes caressed his body, heat pooling, slick and tingling between his legs.

It was very easy to become distracted by such flights of fancy, but down that path lay nothing but complication upon complication upon… Distraction.

Just when he thought there was nothing else to be done but take matters literally into his own hands, the object of his troublesome desires knocked on the door. There he was, Hank, standing outside his room with the flush of alcohol to his cheeks and a very serious look on his face. Even with the drink, he was a feast for sore eyes - and not merely a sight, but a feast.

***

Hank told himself (inasmuch as he didn’t actually speak, but think at himself very loudly), that this was possibly the worst idea he’d had all day, second only to the fact he agreed to come down to the village. He stood outside the Magister’s door, knocked, and waited for it to open ajar, revealing the object of Hank’s ill-conceived plans.

“...yes?” said Connor, eyebrows knitted together: clearly unsure as to what brought the Huntsman himself to his door. In that, they were on the level with one another, because Hank couldn’t explain it even to himself.

“You’re going out with the Watch tomorrow night,” he said, determined to get right to the point. “For the full moon.”

“I am,” said Connor. His brown eyes were sharp despite inebriation (lesser than Hank’s, mind), as were his words. “I take it you’re not joining us?”

Hank shook his head. It seemed such a foolish thing, now, to hurry to the Magister’s door (a  _ Magister _ , for crying out loud), to give him a word of warning. “Just… Be careful, alright? You can’t trust Perkins.”

A smile curled itself around Connor’s mouth, of its own volition. He arched his eyebrows. It did something marvelous to his entire face. “What makes you think I trust him? Why the warning?”

Hank’s lip curled into what felt like a snarl (and very likely looked the part), silent though it was. “If he finds out about you, he’ll stop at nothing to--”

“Not that again,” Connor said, neatly cutting him off. “Why don’t you just spit it out,  _ Master Anderson _ ? What  _ about  _ me?”

They both knew what Hank had been hinting at this morning; surely they both knew what he was alluding to now, though the words seemed stuck in his throat now that push came to shove. Hank swallowed, his voice box bobbing in his throat. His eyes shifted from side to side. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so awkward for having to put words to his suspicions. He lowered his voice to barely a whisper, rasping out one of the most damning sentences of the known world, rivalled only by his own secret. He hoped he wasn’t wrong. By all things holy, he hoped he  _ was wrong _ .

“You’re a witch,” he said, urgency soaking through his very bones. “If  _ I _ can spot you drawing incantations into the air-- what let you see things, track things,  _ sense things _ , you can be damn certain Perkins will too. Before he settled here, before the Plague, he was an  _ Institoris _ . He was an Inquisitor.”

Connor didn’t need the translation: just the look on his face made Hank’s mouth dry up like a shriveled plum left on the rooftop too long beneath a scorching sun. He seemed barely able to form the shapes of the words he wanted to get out. Just like that, the truth was out - but the threats were gone, leaving behind a Huntsman weighed down by remorse, and a Magister leaning into the doorjamb, keeping the door ajar but only just. For what seemed like forever, neither one of them said a word.

“Why the warning?” Connor asked, again. Quieter this time, laced with something other than defiance. To think the same question, composed of the exact same words, could hold such different layers.

Why the warning? Of all the questions he could have asked, this was the one Hank couldn’t answer. Mutual desire was not enough justification, even if he could smell it. Not enough at all. For one treacherous moment, Hank’s eyes betrayed him, settling on Connor’s mouth and lingering far too long: it was as if Connor could read his mind, as if he knew what he was thinking. Hank regained his composure, blinked, and let his eyes find a less dangerous object, and stepped away from the door. Lifting his gaze, his hand followed suit in a gesture of peace and placation and apology all wrapped up in one open palm. “Just...be careful, alright? Keep your wits about you.”

Connor nodded, and watched as Hank retreated. He had to focus, he had to keep his mind on the task at hand: keep his distance, prepare, and help where he could, before it was too late - but just as he set the ball of his foot down on the first landing, there was the sound of movement behind him. Magister Connor had stepped out into the hallway, looking as though he was about to say something he would come to regret.

“I...was wondering-- I could use another pair of eyes on the case. Would you...like to come in?”

***

They sat by the small table, drinking cold but fragrant tea, while Connor showed Hank every last one of his findings. He said he wanted his opinion as Huntsman, and it was at least partially true. Hank had seen right through him, and for some intangible reason it made Connor feel bold, moreso even than usual. Like the old saying went, truth will out, and there was something in the way Hank had spoken outside his door that told Connor he could be trusted. It was about time he show Hank the same courtesy. If he were a man-wolf, then he would know the markings of its kill. Would he deflect? Or would he be honest?

It was perhaps a cruel ruse, but intentional only in part. He would rather Hank tell him outright, than make guesswork of it and end up offending him. Where Hank had been...somewhat tactful, Connor knew it was not his own forte. He was often much too blunt about things (although he’d never quite understood the necessity for tip-toeing around matters, private or otherwise. If you cheat on your wife, you should be fully prepared for it to come out, or you’re better off not fooling around with other people)... This was of a different magnitude, however, and Hank didn’t have the luxury of a high ranking title, like Magister to smooth things over.

Over the course of an hour, perhaps more, Hank proved him right over and over again, confirming his own suspicions about the case as well as the Huntsman himself: the scratches and lacerations were too precise, too fine for animal teeth or claws, entirely unlike those of a wolf, or any of its subcategories. Even a direwolf would be more savage, despite its heightened intelligence. And the way the internal organs had been removed…

“I don’t see how that could’ve been done without a scalpel,” Hank said, gravely and low. “And why remove the organs? Why drain the bodies of blood?”

Connor smiled over the last few drops of black tea. “A vampire comes to mind with regards to the latter,” he said.

“But not the former,” Hank added.

“Perhaps we’re dealing with a shapeshifting surgeon with a taste for sweetmeats?”

The joke, such as it was: rehashed as well as inappropriate, brought a small curling to Hank’s mouth. He looked up from Connor’s detailed sketches, eyes brighter yet with budding amusement.

“You really are a quirky bastard, aren’t you.”

Connor pursed his lips. “Your words, not mine. It does seem rather far fetched. As if someone wants us to think the culprit is a lycanthrope, just to have a scapegoat. Case closed, nice and neat.”

“All wrapped up, pretty bow and everything,” Hank noted with a cynical drawl. “Any ideas on that?”

Ideas? Oh, thought Connor, “ _ Plenty _ . Perkins has been going on about a Beast with a capital ‘b’ since the moment I arrived.”

Hank nodded, bottom lip jutting out right before he gave a backwards whistle through the gap in his front teeth. “He would love to see another trial…”

This, of course, begged a different question. “Then why send for a Magister? I was under the impression he and the Captain both requested my help.”

It sparked a glint of something deep in Hank’s eyes. Something like a hangman’s sense of humor, dark and cynical. “Oh, no. Perkins wouldn’t send for a magic user of  _ any _ kind. Not if his own mother’s life hung in the balance. That was all Fowler.”

Conversation lulled, for a little while, as each of them shared what was left in the teapot. Hank rolled the mug side to side between his hands, eyes staring into its depths. There was clearly something on his mind, and Connor had a feeling he knew what about. The truth will out, and despite their apparent differences there was something between them, evolving like it had a mind of its own. It seemed his ruse had done the trick, cruel or not. Hank was ready to talk.

“When I warned you to leave well enough alone…” Hank said, slowly, measured as ever.

Connor nodded, but dissatisfied with the euphemism. “You practically threatened to tell on me to all and sundry if I breathed a word of my own suspicions - which I’m not wont to do. I don’t work on hunches. Only facts.”

“Yeah, alright.” Hank swallowed, pushing the mug away. “Facts… You’ve figured me out, haven’t you. That’s what this is about. You showing me all your pictures and your texts. You wanted to see my reaction.”

“If you say so,” Connor said, matching Hank’s slow cadence if not his tone. Connor was calm, tranquil; Hank seemed agitated.

“I’m not a monster.”

Connor blinked, caught off-guard but regaining his equilibrium quick enough. “I never said you were.” In an attempt to put the man at ease, he too pushed his tea mug to the side. Mirrored postures were known to have such an effect. He’d found it useful on numerous occasions.

“However… If  _ I _ can spot you getting a whiff of a boar some five hundred yards away…” he said, echoing Hank’s words from before, when they were speaking to each other from across the threshold. The world they inhabited seemed different, somehow, just from that exchange.

“Then Perkins can, too…” Hank said. “I know. I’ve been careful. You can never be too careful...”

“Does he have reason to persecute you?”

Hank arched a fine eyebrow, at that. “You mean other than the Beast business?”

The dry wit did not escape Connor, who nodded. Fair enough. Stupid question, needs narrowing down. Ahem. “Personal grudges? Actual crimes committed on your part?”

Crossing his big arms over his chest, Hank leaned back in the chair, sizing him up with those cool, blue eyes. “Yeah, and nope. I used to be the lawman around here. Worked for Captain Fowler as his second-in-command. Fowler was elected mayor, and I had a bit of...a rough patch, so someone had to fill the void. Enter Perkins.”

As thrilled he was to have all the cards on the table, for a given value of ‘thrilled’ and also ‘poker’, Connor couldn’t help but feel horrible. There was nothing redeemable about two men making threats and observations about one another over a pot of cold tea. There was no victory in hearing Hank’s few-worded confessions.

Connor sighed, slumping back into the wooden backrest of his rickety chair. “I feel like maybe we should have a do-over. Less ubiquitous suspicion, more…benefit of the doubt.”

The response he got was a thing of beauty. Hank smirked, but leaned forward, holding out his hand. In a suitably lowered voice, he said, “I’m Hank. Former officer of the law, now Huntsman of the village, born and raised in the area. Wolf-shifter since birth.”

Hesitating only by a fraction, Connor placed his hand in Hank’s for a firm squeeze. “Alright. My name’s Connor. Magister by trade...witch by birth. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Hank.”

The Huntsman grinned, his eyes sparkling in the light of the fireplace. “Good to meet you too, Connor.”

***

It was hours later that Hank actually left the inn, and through some kind of miracle he felt as if he’d known the Magister a lot longer than just - what? Scarcely a week? In a matter of hours he’d had more insights into the young man’s inner workings, the way he viewed the world, that seemingly innate momentum that kept pushing him forward. If he’d harbored any shred of respect for the man before (he had), it was now tenfold. And not just for the singular focus of the man at-his-work, but the empathy he held for others. Even for a man like Perkins, Connor kept his opinions to himself. Maybe there was something to that old saying, that if you couldn’t say something nice about someone, you’d better keep your mouth shut…

And the way his eyes lit up when he smiled, now, that was absolutely singular. And his sense of humor - rotten to the core, it was, but refreshingly morbid. Not something suitable for the higher echelons of society. Even Fowler might frown, and he wasn’t above cracking bad jokes, himself.

In any case, it was time to leave; head home to his guardpost, and his dog. Together they would watch for anything untowards happening in the woods. The full moon was on the rise, and it was pale as death. Hank hoped it wasn’t an omen of things to come.

Needless to say, he worried, and for the rest of the night, it was all he could do to stop himself thinking about the tingling, ambivalent ache that had settled deep within his chest. There was a bad moon rising, and finding himself growing attached to someone (in any capacity) could prove to be one step too far, moving beyond the point of no return. He couldn’t afford emotional attachments.

***

Though the night afforded him little in the ways of sleep, Connor was up with the first rays of sunlight, sorting through his notes on the case. His mind rang with the echoing of Hank’s warning from the night before, to stay on guard with Perkins, whom he now knew to be a former Inquisitor. Magic was a tricky subject, both revered and abhorred, depending who used it and in what capacity. A Magister was a sanctioned authority, looked upon by governing forces as a weapon against dark magic, though generally believed to have no natural affinity for it. A witch...was different from a Magister only as to their knowledge: they used magic to help their own kith and kin, to safeguard their village. Be it through potions or incantations, their so-called witchcraft was considered a threat to the Order of Things, while Magisters were a way to keep it in place.

Connor’s own conundrum was two-fold: he had been a natural at magic since the day he was born, but thanks to his family ties he had received training from a very early age, as a way to hide his talents out in the open. Had he stayed in his hometown, his life would have turned out very different indeed. The Witch’s Hammer was still revered as the Tome to put all others to shame.

Hank’s words of caution made him wonder if Perkins would make such a distinction. Would he care that he  _ knew _ magic, that it coursed through his very veins, and didn’t simply study the ‘Arcane Arts’ as a way of defending against them?

In Connor’s experience, it was very likely going to be a problem unless he exercise the strictest of caution. Luckily, he knew the  _ malleus maleficarum _ by heart. He knew how to hide, and he knew how to ward off evil no matter its form or agency.

Cynicism suddenly reared its ugly head, making him wish for Hank’s presence only so that he might provide distraction for the Commander of the Watch. Connor had a feeling he would need all the help he could get. And if push came to shove, he would have to lie through his teeth.

ACT III.

By the time the final strategizing ended and the Nightwatch and the Magister were on the move, it was still raining. To make matters worse, the storm was picking up - just like Hank had said. Sometimes it felt like it had rained for months on end, and with no end in sight until winter finally descended. It was a foul omen, even if it was just rain.

It was on Perkins’ suggestion that they went further up into the woods, headed for the mountains, where (as he claimed) lay old caves; cavernous gouges into the rock, perfect lairs for all manner of foul creatures. Connor set out with him and the remaining brave members of the Nightwatch, a tight-knotted feeling in his belly. This was not his first campaign against creatures of the dark: he’d solved a hundred of these cases on his own, but the tragic fate of the village lingered on his mind. Lives lost to a horrific death, families grieving… (Could it be true? Or was Perkins embellishing events to make himself look good? The one scenario didn’t necessarily preclude the other…)

Perkins boasted like a hunter about its kills, that he knew there was something foul afoot long before anyone else. In fact, Perkins claimed, he had seen the signs of lycanthropy the second they found the Kamski sisters dead in the woods. It was obvious like piss on fresh white snow, he said, and leaned closer to Connor from the perch of his own saddle.

“Those girls spent too much time in the woods, I tell you. I tried warning their parents, you don’t let your kids run wild in the forest. They dismissed me. Well, they won’t dismiss me again, mark my words!”

(...but Connor had too much savvy in these matters to know when someone was lying. Lycanthropy didn’t exactly carry a calling card. A trained eye could spot it, but Perkins seemed more and more a politician on the rise, than an expert on matters Arcane). 

Connor said nothing. He didn’t have children of his own, though to his knowledge neither did Perkins: he couldn’t say why anyone let their kids roam free, other than to presume they knew their children and the forest well enough to let them. Not to mention he knew nothing of raising a child. How to tell a human child from a changeling, certainly! But...that wasn’t quite the same thing. 

But it wasn’t just that he lied - it seemed to him that Perkins’s ego had been bruised. Dismiss the  _ Institoris _ ?  _ Heavens forfend _ , thought Connor grimly -  _ I have found myself in the midst of one man's quest for greater renown _ .

They searched the caves higher up the mountainside, but found nothing. The Nightwatch were scared, still haunted by the last time they set out to face the supposed Beast. After some consideration, it was Connor who pushed on with Perkins, leaving the Watch a way downhill to hold the metaphorical fort. It seemed like a backwards approach, from Connor’s point of view, but he was not the Commander: the Watch didn’t answer to him. Higher up, following steep trails, they left their horses when the incline became too much for them. They continued on foot, even knowing it was madness. This far up north on the continent, daylight dwindled quickly this time of year, and the rain made for poor visibility even when the sun was at zenith. Now, it very nearly blocked out the light of the full moon. Of course, as such ventures often go, it wasn’t long at all before Connor had the distinct impression they were being watched.

“Someone’s following us,” he told Perkins, barely louder than a whisper.

“Or something. Remember, these woods are cursed.”

Connor didn’t say he’d seen no such indications during his explorations with the Huntsman. This was not the time for petty squabbles. They stayed their course, and then-- 

A loud  _ snap!  _

“There!” Hissed Perkins, suddenly on high alert. “Did you hear that?”

Yes, Connor heard it. The rustling of branches and undergrowth, something moving in increments. He splayed his hand out, bringing it into a wide arch in front of them, whispering a spell into the ether. “ _ Lux _ !”

Light filled the darkness in front of them, like a halfmoon, better than any lantern or torch - and in the nick of time. Just a bit further ahead, three sets of white-blue eyes widened with surprise. A cacophony of hissing and clicking of jaws, teeth rattling. Not merely animal, but beastly in every sense of the word.

“A monster!” Perkins exclaimed, high pitched and frantic - it made Connor wonder if his  _ entire _ resume was a work of fiction, if the first sign of trouble had him in such a state.

“No,” said Connor, quite calmly reaching for Perkins’ staff. “There’s three of them.”

The three wolves threw themselves forward (for three they were, with fur white as snow and eyes glowing like the finest  _ lapis lazuli _ ), and Connor answered the challenge. They danced around each other, trading blows and swipes, the wolves snapping their fangs at him - they were distorted, disjointed like the very air around them. They moved too fast, growled as if they had the gift of verbosity, as if they were speaking in tongues. He’d heard such voices only once before, several hundred miles down south, when exorcising a young priest.

The forest echoed with the sounds of the fight, and without a moment’s notice Perkins was gone, running downhill as fast as he could to get away. He ran blinded by fear, until one moment of distraction caused him to slam into something as unrelenting as a wall of stone.

He fell back, the air knocked clear out of him, and as he raised his eyes to look, what he saw drained his face of every last drop of blood. He tried to scream, and nothing came out but whimpering. So petrified was he, that he couldn’t draw enough breath into his lungs even to call for help.

Before him stood the very monster of his inflated stories, a nightmare in the flesh - a man and direwolf combined, standing on its hind legs, head rolling from side to side atop a neck as thick as his own waist. It growled, quiet at first, but gaining in strength, until the force of it was like thunder. Teeth bared in a snarl, the Beast lunged at him--

\--and threw him further downhill like a wet rag. The last thing he saw before passing out was the silvery coat of the monster as it ran on all fours, uphill. Heading for the Magister.

***

Up in the clearing, concussive blasts of heat and light made a spectacle of the fight - one man faced with three wolves, and mist spreading around them. It rose up from the ground around them, where none was before; rising like a living thing, like a wall shielding them from the outside world. Nothing existed in that clearing but them, nothing but snarls and blood drawn, and the air filled fast with the smell of burning flesh and magic.

And then, that thick mist began to move, as if curling in on itself, airborne but solidifying at the same time until a man stood there, veiled by the thickness of the air. He was tall enough, taller than most, of slim build and porcelain skin, fine features from the tips of his arched, black eyebrows to the long lines of his limbs. His eyes were pale as ice just settling on the lake, crisp and clear as crystal.

As he coalesced from the fog itself, the wolves quieted down, crouching low to the ground and crawling to his side. Their grins were maniacal, shining like moon crescents, and their eyes stared at their master - mesmerized and unseeing at the same time. Connor watched, chest heaving from the exertion and heart racing with foreboding.

The stranger’s smile, however - as beatific though it was, it was as cold as his eyes. He watched Connor with an air of propriety, ownership, and greed.

“Fresh blood,” he said, his voice cultivated, words rolling from a silver tongue and sharp teeth. “How quaint.”

Connor steeled himself, cataloging the signs before him: the agelessness, the shapeshifting, the teeth, the mention of blood (predictable, but helpful), the clawed nails, the entourage…

“It’ll be the bane of you, demon,” Connor countered, prepared for the worst. If this was what he suspected, he would have to keep his wits about him, and foresee the immediate future as best he could.

“Oh,” said the stranger, petting one of his wolves’ adoring faces. “That’s what you’re trained to say, Magister… But _ I _ can hear your heartbeat. We both know you don’t believe that.”

It wasn’t too difficult to hear, Connor thought in the privacy of his own mind: if he thought his heart sounded like big drums between his ears, he wasn’t at all surprised if they could hear it down in the village.

His idea of privacy was quickly thrown out the window, as the stranger shot forward too fast for the human eye to perceive, claw-like fingers cupping his face in a grotesquery of affection. This close, his eyes were so very blue, like the skies and the ocean, enough for any mere mortal to drown in. Hypnotizing… Magnetic.

“Drums, hm?” The strange man purred, teeth bared in a casual smile. “No. Not drums… But blood, crashing like waves. Would you like to see the waves, child? Would you like to be free of the shackles of this world? These...tethers of your own making...”

“I…”

He couldn’t speak, or even close his eyes. The sheer thought of it ached, like a long forgotten wound. He couldn’t look away from those...those eyes…

Suddenly the wind shrieked around them as broken off branches came flying through the air. Loud cracks cut through the fog like salvos from a battery of cannons, and suddenly the air cleared with a flurry of motion: a creature twice the size of a man crashed into the clearing, roaring louder than any bear or mountain cat. In the sudden commotion, Connor stumbled to his knees on the ground. The spell broken, he looked on as a direwolf lycanthrope slammed into the pack of wolves and monster.

“...h-h…  _ Hank? _ WATCH OUT!”

The three wolves gave up blood curdling shrieks to the air, and the vampire threw himself at the direwolfman.

The sounds of the fight would stay with Connor for as long as he lived - inhuman, guttural snarls and high pitched howls, and the sounds of claws ripping into flesh. Both sides stood their ground, and when Connor regained his composure, he found himself fighting side by side with the biggest werewolf he’d ever come across, in his books or in the flesh. He couldn’t have been happier for it.

***

Meanwhile, further downhill, one of the members of the Nightwatch, by name of North, was making her way through the dense, old forest. She was headstrong and savvy, and not scared of putting her own life at risk for the greater good of her people. There was a threat to her community, and she would not stand idly by as the Commander (whom she viewed as largely incompetent and entirely untrustworthy) scouted ahead with what was possibly their only way out of this mess. She’d brought her comrades, rallied them to bravery, whether Perkins agreed with her decision or not.

And true to her misgivings, what did she find if not the Commander, out cold with a bloody nose and in complete disarray. Not five hundred paces from where he left his team for the sake of inflating his own ego in front of a perceived rival?

She knelt by Commander Perkins, patted his cheek until he came to. What she did not expect was the former Inquisitor to fly to his feet, eyes mad with zealotus conviction and fear. He grabbed her by the collar, shouting at them all that the Beast had appeared again, and now it had company. There wasn’t just the one, but three more. North’s blood seemed to freeze. She couldn’t remember when last she felt so chilled to the bone.

“Three more of them? But how is that possible? You said there was only one!”

Perkins shook his head, stumbling back. He jabbed a righteous finger in the air, pointing it to the Heavens. She’d seen that look before. He was gearing up for one of his speeches.

She’d heard it all before: The beast  _ MUST DIE _ or the weather would never change, the crops would continue to wither and die, the people would starve, and who knows how many women would be lured by the demon! Just look at the three sisters, now dead and buried!

Yes, she’d heard it all before, and no matter how many monsters they’d slain, or how many people had been tried for witchcraft throughout the land, the weather never changed back to their grandparents’ stories of plentiful crops and the calm, expected changing of the seasons that came every year. They lost crops almost every year, they continued to starve, and the longer she stayed with the Watch, the less she believed demons or witches had anything to do with it. Witches had to eat, too, and if all of humanity died, then what of the demons?

“Up the hill?” She asked, once Perkins ran out of steam. He nodded, and North did what she ought have done long ago: she took charge, and led her team up the mountain.

***

Hank fought like he’d never fought, not for any cause nor any purpose other than to survive: he fought like the entire world depended on his success - and mayhaps it did. Beside him was the single most brightly shining light that he’d ever come across, all done up in the guise of a man. He was focused, strong, and painfully beautiful, and his end was not to come here, in this glen, on this night of all nights, because the Commander of the Nightwatch had led him into an ambush out of his own ignorance. No. Hank fought to save his village from this fresh evil, and to save the Magister fighting beside him without question or doubt. He knew. He’d seen right through him from the very start, or so Hank suspected. His eyes were keen, sharp, and, strangely so, void of judgment, even when inviting him to his room at the inn. Looking at sketches and journal entries and his bestiarium… He’d looked to the man Hank was, first, not the Beast he suspected him to be.

For that alone, he deserved no less than an equal measure: of loyalty, of perseverance, of grit, and bravery in the face of certain death. Connor couldn’t fight a vampire and three of its ghouls on his own. He needed backup - and here it was: Hank threw himself into the fray, drawing blood as well as blood-curdling screams from the wolves. They gave as good as they got, working as one though they were three; and their master shifted into a swarm of bats whenever he could, leaving Hank in a state of agony. Little cuts all over him, tufts of fur flying through the air as claws and teeth lashed at his skin, and it burned like fire.

Then came the comfort of Connor’s healing spells, the protecting aura he placed upon him - just the knowledge that they were in this together, equal to one another, was enough to keep him going.

They fought like beasts in their own right, the witch and the werewolf, side by side against a common enemy, faced with the same evil: the vampire circled around them like a halo, his laughter ringing through the forest as he disappeared and reappeared when least expected to land a blow, or sink his teeth into soft flesh. He was like a cat toying with its prey, delighting in the slow taunting, the tortuous nature of this dying game.

Every chance he got, the vampire threw Connor through the air like a ragdoll, and every time he crashed to the ground, Hank thought this was it - this is the end - because without Connor the game would be over in no time. You’d think a Magister would act like any other cleric and cower in the background, casting spells from a safe distance, but not Connor. He fought with every weapon available to him, as witch  _ and _ Magister. He was right there in the thick of it, countering blows with his staff, parrying, guarding  _ him _ \- the seven foot werewolf. He fought as fiercely as any warrior, regardless of his clerical garb and scholarly appearance.

But as well as they fought it soon wore them down, and with no sign of Perkins bringing reinforcements, things were looking very bleak indeed. No amount of regenerative affinities or spells could keep up with the incessant attacks, and Connor’s precious potions were of limited supply. His face was a mask of exhaustion, gaunt and pale, and smeared with blood. He was running on nothing but fumes, and Hank were soon on his last reserves of sheer, hard-nosed grit.

To be fair, even the three white wolves looked run down, their eyes lacklustre and faded. It seemed that for every time their master sent them forward, they lost more and more of their blind subservience. They looked to each other, tongues lolling, their otherworldly voices calling out across an invisible bond.

Everything changed in a matter of seconds, as nearly the entire Nightwatch burst forth through the trees, led by North, who would have put even the Furies of legend to shame.

“ _ It’s a vampire! _ ” Connor called out, placing himself between the werewolf and the Watch - and that gesture was what turned the tide. It was as if a veil had been lifted from everyone’s eyes: that Perkins’ foul Beast was on  _ their _ side. How wrong had they been, to trust his word.

North led the charge, and while the witch and the werewolf fought on with renewed strength - it was not their cunning that brought the vampire to his fitting end, but something else entirely. The sun was just beginning to rise over the horizon, and with the sun came a new kind of enlightenment. The veil that had lifted from the eyes of the collected Nightwatch had fallen from the three wolves as well - for they were not possessed wolves at all. They were thralls of their vampire lord, a spell put upon them. Watching the townsfolk fight for their life, for freedom from this monster, something began to shift very quickly within them.

One rattled its jaws at the other, and the other at the third, until the three of them lunged as one - great limbs and long claws wrapping around their master, razor sharp teeth digging into his flesh - leaving him open for Connor’s finishing blow. He cracked Perkins’ staff over his knee, and plunged it into the vampire’s chest.

As he lay there writhing, hissing and spitting curses, the wolves held fast while the Watch stayed back, unsure what was happening. The sun rose ever higher, and as the first rays of light hit the three wolves, their guises began to lift. Connor chanted out blessings and binding spells one after the other, to safeguard all mortal souls present, to bind the vampire and rid him of his powers, and as his magic took hold...

Those dark blue wolf eyes sparkled to a paler clarity, their white coats of fur changed to long, flowing locks of gold, and though the vampire lay paralyzed by creeping death, they held on.

They were the three sisters who had disappeared, whose bodies Perkins had claimed to find mutilated beyond recognition. Three sisters, united in a single goal, to free themselves of their master’s hold, and watch him burn.

And burn he did - and they, with him.

***

In the eerie quiet of the aftermath, Hank returned to his human form. His entire body ached, his knees shaking, spine rattling with old pains and new, nearly bringing him to his knees if not for the Magister at his side. Connor was there like a pillar to steady him; lying through his teeth to North about casting a spell on Hank to change him into a direwolf. It was plain to see that she didn’t buy it, but Hank was relieved when she let it go without comment or query. He fought  _ with _ them, not against them. Perhaps that was enough for her. He hoped against hope that was the case. In the meantime, all he wanted was to retreat to his cabin at the edge of the woods, and recuperate. He’d always been a fast healer, but tonight was...something for the annals. 

It was Connor who spoke up first, once the mist cleared, and they all stood there reeling after the fact. “So much for the Beast theory,” he said, and he couldn’t be more right.

“Yeah,” wheezed Hank, leaning into him, perhaps more heavily than he should, but his limbs felt leaden and weary.

“What is your verdict?” asked Connor, and meeting the eye of the de facto commander of the Watch, they came to an understanding. “I told Perkins it didn’t add up, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“That wasn’t just a vampire,” North pointed out, confident that he could keep delicate matters to himself. “That was the  _ village Surgeon _ … What on Earth do I tell Fowler?”

“Tell him the truth,” said Connor, looking like he’d danced with Death one time too many. “Perkins lied to everyone, and in doing so, he endangered the entire village. Tell Fowler we’re all lucky to be alive.”

***

The sisters were laid to rest in the same coffin, their funeral attended by the whole village. Come nightfall, the entire graveyard was lit up by candles and lanterns. For the moment, the rain had stopped, leaving behind a hazy but crisp humidity in the air. The vampire was staked, burned and beheaded, and Institoris Perkins was driven out of the village for his self-serving deception. You could see it in the eyes of the townsfolk, that there was a new sense of hope in the air, like the first snowfall after too dark an autumn, bringing back some light into the darkness. North was appointed the new Commander of the Watch, and like the rest of the village, she seemed eager to move forward into a brighter future. It was about time that someone with clarity and vision protected the village, rather than someone bent on personal gains.

***

The following night, back in the village proper, the town hall was alight with a combined celebration and send-off for the dead sisters and all who had lost their lives to the monstrous Surgeon - the so-called Beast was dead, and they had all the right in the world to drink and be merry.

Hank kept to the corners of the town hall, present as a courtesy to the dead and little more. The lure of the drink was too strong for him to feel entirely comfortable at such gatherings, and he planned to stay as long as strictly necessary and not a moment longer. But then Connor approached him, a peculiar look in his eye. He looked...worried. 

“Are you okay?”

It was an innocent question, as they went. Hank shrugged, more to hide the way he wanted to stretch out a kink in his back than pretend at actual nonchalance. “I’m fine.”

It was clear in the way Connor’s lips pursed that he didn’t believe one word of it, though he said nothing to that effect. Instead he settled side by side with Hank against the wall, much like they’d been back in the glen. Side by side, back to back.

“You?”

The question seemed to catch the young Magister by surprise, with the way he looked at Hank, mouth working to produce words, but nothing came forth.

Hank arched his eyebrows, and dared a small smile. “Cat got your tongue, Connor?”

“No. I--. I’m fine.”

Hank nodded, feeling better for the answer. At least, if nothing else, they could be awkward together. On equal terms once again. It felt like they’d been on an even keel with one another from the first time their eyes met (even if he was reluctant to admit it at the time). Such a strange feeling that was, to think anyone could understand you on a perfectly instinctual level. Connor didn't need more than a day or two by his side to figure him out, his darkest secret; and vice versa.

It didn’t bear thinking if they were suited in other ways as well, but his wandering mind be damned - all he could think of was the way that mouth shaped such words as to bring a man to his knees. The way Connor’s eyes lit up when talking about the strangest things. The smiles they’d shared, victorious, just hours ago. He was beautiful, to the core of him.

“Do you--”

Hank blinked, and glanced his way. Connor stood there, arms crossed over his chest, as if that alone kept his hands in check. “What?”

“Do you think there’s a place in the world for people like us?”

Hank breathed in deep, as deep as his lungs allowed for, and turned sideways against the wall to face his friend and confidante better. Perhaps Connor’s hands were kept in check, but Hank found himself reaching out, itching to touch. His fingers connected, stroking along the line of Connor’s jaw. Their eyes met, holding for far longer than socially acceptable, before finding a new object of fascination in the shape of each other’s lips.

“There’s a place for us,” Hank whispered, the pad of his thumb brushing over the fullness of Connor’s bottom lip. “Together or apart.”

Whether it was the right thing to say, or the wrong one, Hank couldn’t tell - but the very next moment, the room went up in a roar of delight. Music picked up again, and all around them people began to dance. It was all it took for the moment to come to an abrupt end. Connor’s eyes fell away, their hands clasping but for a moment before they parted ways. Connor disappeared into the crowd, like he’d never appeared in the first place.

There one second, and gone in an instant. Wasn’t that the story of his life?

EPILOGUE

In the aftermath of everything that followed Perkins’ mad hunt, Magister and Huntsman said nothing of the kiss they very nearly shared. Connor returned to the inn for one last night in the village, while Hank resumed his duties in the woods. Connor consulted his books, arranging his notes on the case for his report, but every time he tried to work, his mind turned to Hank. His at times brusque manners, his disregard for courtesies when needs must; his warmth, his loyalty, his unwavering sense of duty; the way he had risked everything to help rid the village of a monster.

...the way they almost kissed. The way they talked now, speaking to each other like allies. Equals-in-arms.

He spent another night awake, burning with the itch to  _ do something _ , something he may well live to regret, but the desire was too strong to ignore. There was no use trying to talk himself out of it. He had to see him. Even if they would never meet again, he had to know if he’d imagined things, or if…if there was something there, other than mere lust. Even if it turned out he was wrong, he couldn’t leave without saying a proper goodbye.

He took his horse at the break of dawn, leaving the village behind for the cottage at the edge of the forest. His heart raced in his chest the entire way, and when he heard Sumo’s first bark of greeting he didn’t know whether to hurry or turn around, but then he saw it. The door opening, and Hank stepping out onto the yard. It was like a waking dream, an overwhelming sense of déjà vu coming over him, except they had both been here before. Hank’s bright eyes lit up by a grin that seemed to stretch from ear to ear, and Connor jumped off his horse and barely got to tie it to the post before they were wrapped up in each other’s arms. Hank’s warm, rasping chuckles were like a boon, and when the Huntsman picked him clear off the ground in a firm hug, Connor didn’t protest but went up in chortles of his own.

They made it out alive, both of them. A bit worse for wear, but in one piece. Hank set him down on the ground, and Connor’s fingers moved through his beard in twin caresses. He couldn’t help himself, he had to touch him. Not even three days ago, he felt so hesitant: should he or shouldn’t he, concerned about the consequences. Standing here now, looking into Hank’s tender eyes, he couldn’t have felt more confident.

“Back at the inn,” he said, eyes trained on Hank’s easy smile, and that charming little gap in his front teeth.

“Yeah?”

“When you warned me about Perkins…”

Hank’s smile shifted and changed, as if he tried and failed to keep a straight face and finally just gave in to the mirth. “Uhuh.”

“I would have had you.”

“Nah.”

It seemed so simple - as if, to Hank, there was nothing the matter about his choice of words. Connor’s mouth twitched in perplexed amusement. “No? I just told you I would.”

“Oh, I know…” Hank inclined his chin, stroking Connor’s shoulder blades as if he couldn’t keep away, the touch connecting them in ways that shouldn’t be possible.

“Don’t tell me you could smell me,” Connor warned him, feeling a rush of playfulness come over him.

“I can smell  _ everyone _ ,” Hank pointed out. “But… Even without the scent of you-- The flush of your skin, the way you looked at me - that night and before. You wanted me, but you wouldn’t have had me.”

Hank was right. Duty bound him like a tether until his mission was completed, but now? Was he free to choose? How long until his next assignment (well, not long at all), how long before his superiors called him back to the city. It seemed every village had a monster lurking in the shadows these days, which meant he would never truly be free. There would always be that tether, keeping him from straying too far. Even if he found someone - someone like Hank - he couldn’t stay. He could never stay, he would always be called back to the capitol, and called out on the roads once more. Always on a mission, always duty bound.

He’d had such thoughts before, but they’d never bothered him. He would spend what leisure he allowed himself with people that intrigued him, and when the time came, he would leave. It never bothered him before, because he’d never met someone like Hank. Until now. The vampire’s words rang between his ears, that the tether was of his own doing. Could he have known something Connor hadn’t realized? Something plain to see, clear as blue skies after the rain...

The touch of Hank’s fingers brushing down his temple brought him out of his dark thoughts. “I can almost hear the gears cranking away in there. What’s wrong?”

Connor shook his head, covered up his doubts with a smile, and pulled Hank into a kiss. “Nothing,” he said, and kissed him again. They were the first and second of many, many kisses - and Hank pulled him closer, flush to his body.

The heat between them was unmistakable, palpable, like a living, breathing thing that moved from one to the other, pulling them closer, crashing together in desire. Still, Hank wasn’t buying it. He wasn’t ready to let it drop. “Nothing, my ass,” he ground out between one consuming kiss and the next, but Connor was nothing if not prepared for it.

“Invite me, Master Anderson, or I’ll ride you right here in the yard.”

It was enough vivid imagery to change his mind. He picked Connor up like he weighed nothing; Connor wrapped his long legs around his middle and resumed his current mission of kissing Hank to within an inch of madness. And madness it was, to stumble into the cottage blindly, to topple onto the small bed in the corner, tearing at each other’s clothes just to get to bare skin. Madness, to have Hank’s face between his legs, ankles hooked over his broad shoulders - to grab fistfuls of his long hair to keep him there, working magic with his tongue and his lips, and that beard, tickling until everything burned like fire deep within him. Madness, to want someone so much that you’re incoherent with lust, to climb his body and impale yourself, ride him until your thighs ache and your entire body shakes.

He’d dreamed of this since the moment they first met, to have Hank pinned down and shaking with pleasure, to listen to his deep, guttural moans and feel every strong thrust hit home. But that was just the thing - Hank wasn’t well and truly pinned to the bed, and he wasn’t going to just lay back and enjoy the ride. Just when Connor thought he couldn’t feel more on fire, Hank lured him into another kiss, and said, “Easy, easy,” like a promise - and sat up on the bed... hooked Connor’s legs over his arms, and propped him up against the wall.

Connor gasped, as gravity did the trick, pushing Hank’s cock that much deeper inside him. And that angle, and having every last inch of the man pressed into his body, hairy chest and belly fitting him like a glove - he could barely speak.

“Fast or slow?” Hank whispered, nuzzling his cheek. The tenderness was almost enough to bright stars before Connor’s eyes, but there was only one thing he could say to that.

“ _ Hard _ .”

***

Hours passed in a blur of desire fulfilled, wherein the entire world faded in and out of existence, until much later, much,  _ much _ later, shapes and colors danced across his vision, and nothing but the sound of deep, relaxed breathing made it to his ears. He felt warm, but not uncomfortably so, blanketed by the heavy weight of his lover, solid, tangible, and deliciously  _ real _ . He drifted in and out of that warm space, where not even the dark could hurt him, for he was safe. Safe from harm, and sated, and thoroughly exhausted.

“Ah,” rasped a familiar voice behind his ear, warm and comforting like the crackling fire. “Our patient is awake.”

“‘Patient’…”  _ Please _ . “‘Guest’ would be more aptly put.” He groaned, sore in places he’d forgotten all about. “...what a pair we make.”

“Mmmh,” hummed Hank, blatantly satisfied, a smile in his voice. “An even match.”

Connor said nothing for a precious few moments. Silence was the enemy here, but he felt weighed down by the things he had to ask about. “A witch and a werewolf…” he murmured over Hank’s delectably hairy arm. “Can you imagine?”

Hank gave another hum behind him, presumably to mull things over, but Connor suspected the man was too... _ happy _ , he didn’t want to think, because of the implications of what his departure would do to that happiness, but Hank certainly sounded contented.

“I’m not entirely without imagination,” he said, and pressed a bristly kiss to Connor’s shoulder. “But this isn’t a dreamscape. This is the real world, and...I  _ presume _ , you’ll be on your way before midday.”

“Ah.” Connor swallowed, voicebox moving up and down in his throat. “That’s… Yes. Ideally.”

Hank nodded, and propping himself up on his forearms, he looked at Connor for a good, long while. Searching his face for clues, perhaps, or full blown answers. “In that case, I think the question you should be asking is whether you’d like a pair of old mutts along for the ride. We’re both fiercely loyal, excellent listeners, and we don’t slobber. Much.”

He couldn’t believe his own ears. It couldn’t be that simple, that easy, for a man to unroot himself from the place he’d called home for years. “What?”

“You heard me. You want a companion, or are you telling me you’re one of those lone wolf bullshit, broody types?”

Hank’s confidence did something magical to him. It made him feel like maybe life didn’t need to be so complicated after all. It made him begin to smile. “You’re a lone wolf,” Connor pointed out, feeling cheeky and not a lick of shame to him.

“Yeah,” said Hank, emphatic. “And I’m calling bullshit!”

Just like that, Connor’s heart raced in his chest all over again, but with something much different from desire. It felt a lot like coming home, after an extended exile. “I could use a companion or two.”

“Yeah?” It was Hank’s turn to look surprised, but happily so. “Well, we’re a package deal, you don’t get one without the other. Deal?”

Connor couldn’t help himself, but tugged Hank closer again, into the first kiss of the rest of their days together, however many they had. “But...what about your home?”

Hank shrugged, and snuggled closer still. “A house is a home only for the people in it. My house will still be here when I return. I can always come back, some day. But if I stay here...I’ll regret it. And I won’t chase after you like some lunatic.”

“Alright,” Connor agreed through a beaming grin of his own. “Deal.”

And so it was, that in hunting down and slaying a Beast that wasn’t technically a Beast but a vampire, that the Magister who was indeed a witch, and the Huntsman who was in fact a werewolf in disguise, became partners in all ways except the strictly entrepreneurial. 

Let this humble story be a reminder to one and all, that one should never judge a bookworm by its self-made carapace (nor indeed an old hound by its hairs).

THE END


End file.
